**
**Prologue**
He said goodbye to Adair at Whitewood Cross. They had stopped at the Golden Hart, one of the better taverns. Adair knew the tavern keeper, of course. The old man couldn't have been more delighted if it was his long lost son.
"My boy! Where have you been? I haven't seen you in what, two years now? Sit yourself. And your friend too!" He bustled around, and soon they were at a corner table, with two mugs filled to the brim with fresh cider in front of them. "Aleron, is there any pottage? And your wife's famous onion pickle?" asked Adair.
The old man grinned. Maffy is whipping up the pottage as we speak. There's a good batch of pickles too. Its been a good season for everything."
Adair turned to his companion. "You want anything special, chief? Within reason, of course. No peacocks or swans."
His companion smiled. "Pottage and pickle sounds perfect."
Adair grinned. "Master Aleron, this here is the chief. I've been following his orders for the past six years, and today I get to tell him he can stuff it. But to be fair, he's kept me alive all this time, which is something, given that most people who know me want to kill me after five minutes. "
The man smiled. "Your farm boy is being modest, Master Aleron. More often than not, it was he was the one looking after me, made sure I survived. And believe me, people know his worth. Adair has told me a lot about you. By the way, my name is Çoban."
"You are very welcome, Master Çoban." Aleron gave him a friendly nod, before he was shoved aside by a tall thin woman with a steaming pot. She set it carefully on the table, and gave Adair a sharp whack on the head with a wooden ladle. "Six years. Not one word. Your mother has been worried sick. One son dead in the wars, the other disappears without a word. What is wrong with children these days!"
"I'm back now, aunt Maffy."
"Yes. And in a few days you'll be off again. Children these days! Don't know the meaning of responsibility!"
Adair grinned. "I've missed you too, aunt Maffy. I've missed your pickled onions, at least."
Maffy gave him another whack on the head, and turned to fetch the pickles, but Coban saw a faint glint of tears in her eyes.
Coban listened to Adair pick up old threads. The farm was doing well this year. His parents were in good health, though they pined for their lost children in their different ways. Adair's sister had a son a year ago. She had married a farmer, one of his childhood friends.
The food was excellent. The cider was better. But Adair was bolting his food. Coban could sense Adair's impatience. Found family was all well and good, he thought, but in the end, there was nothing like blood kin. And he didn't blame Adair for wanting to go home.
Whitewood Cross was busy. Noon on market day during a good summer meant that stalls were packed with visitors and marketers from all over the hundred.
"Well. I don't think this is the last we'll see of each other. I expect you to come and visit, meet the folks. Say hello to the nephew," said Adair.
Coban smiled. "Yes. I will. Now go on. Don't waste time talking to me. I understand."
Adair paused, then drew him into a bone-crushing hug. "You take care of yourself, you hear?" he said, and he was on his way.
Coban watched Adair's broad back until it was lost in the crowds and the dust.
He tugged at the reins of the mule and as he headed out on the East Road.
-----
It was late afternoon when he came to the edge of Sunvet woods.
This was where it had all started. The woods hadn't changed much in six years. Then, it had just been Ilanna and he, both scared, but trying their best not to show it. The old man who had been their father in everything but blood had just been killed, there was a huge armored figure and his monstrous retinue searching for them in the dark, and when they were reasonably sure they had lost their pursuers in the wood, they had heard the baying of a wolf.
And of course they would blunder into it in the dark, and it had nearly killed him before Ilanna had managed to stun it with a bolt of magic and then thrust her dagger through its throat.
He sighed. Ilanna was the closest thing he had to family. But she had said her goodbyes days ago. She was not the frightened little girl looking adoringly at her big brother for protection anymore. How many times had she saved his life after that night? He had lost count.
She was still the same Ilanna in many ways, with her fondness for mischief and her wicked sense of humour, her passionate sense of justice, but she was an archmage now, formidable in power, capable of stopping time itself. And she chosen to stay in Trovare, at the tower of the Arts. The fact Delon the wizard lived there had nothing to do with it of course.
They had grown up together, two orphans adopted by Banlon. He had been nine, she had been three when the paladin had found them.
Family. Not blood, but family still.
There was a rustle in the bushes ahead and a wolf appeared on the path.
Coban laughed out loud.
--------
**The Priests**
It was getting dark. Coban found a spot just outside the woods, near a rocky outcrop that opened on to the fields. There was likely no danger here, he thought, but better safe. He set up camp quickly, Then came the usual precautions. Small piles of rock across the main approach. Fire well away from the tent. He had snared a rabbit, and he skinned this, and soon it was on a makeshift spit on the flames. There was enough salt, and firemoss extract, even a pinch of black pepper.
He had grown to prefer meals like these. Though the memory of the pottage reminded him of what he had been missing.
He finished his meal, letting the fire die out. The remains of the meal were neatly buried. He walked down to the stream for water and washed his hands. The water was clear and cold. He refilled his mug and drank, savouring the liquid like it was the finest wine.
He returned to his tent for a last pipe, which he smoked, looking at the enchanter's cloak sky.
"Six years," he thought.
He looked at the old scar on his hand. The wolf had given him that, before Ilanna had come through. And then they had run, stumbling and panting, until they could see the abbey of the Guard in the distance.
----------
They had stumbled through the gates. Ilanna could hardly walk, and he had been bleeding heavily. He had wondered if the priests were asleep when the doors opened.
The man who came out was bareheaded, but wore a suit of chain. His face was hard and stern, but at the moment, all it showed was concern.
"Come in, my children. Fear not, unless you seek to bring evil"
Coban had said nothing. He had fainted.
When he came to, he was lying in a narrow bed in a small room. There was a man seated at a small table, with his back to him, writing something in the light of a candle.
"Now, I would ask you to lie still for a while longer, boy," the man said. "You have been badly scratched, and it is lucky that the bites were not infected. We will deal with the wolves, we have been remiss with our duties as far as they are concerned."
"It wasn't just the wolves."
The man turned. This was not the same man who had met them at the gates. He was older, but had the same hardness and sternness that had characterized the other. "Did you have to look like that if you were a priest of the Guardian? Or did you start looking like that over your years as a priest?" thought Coban.
He sat up.
"Thank you, Sir Guardian," he said, remembering the formal address from an old lesson Banlon had taught them.
The man smiled. It changed the contours of his face, and he no longer looked as forbidding.
"We do not require thanks for doing our duty, Master Coban, but it is appreciated."
Of course, thought Coban. Ilanna must have told them. He wondered what exactly she had told them, given her gift of romance at short notice.
"Is my sister all right?"
"She is indeed. She in the next room, hopefully fast asleep. It has been a difficult day for you both."
"Has she told you what happened?"
"She has. But I would like to hear from you as well. And remember, you are safe here."
He took a deep breath and the story tumbled out. The strange messenger. Banlon's face as he read the message. His urgency to leave. His instructions for Ilanna. The flight through the fields. The ambush. The armoured giant with glowing eyes. The ogres. How Banlon had cast a spell of invisibility on him, screaming for him to get away. His furious assault destroyed the attackers, but could not touch the giant, who with a powerful sweep of a massive greatsword, had left Banlon lying bleeding to death in the middle of a circle of stones. And the giant's last words. "I will find him, old man. Your valour, though admirable will be in vain."
"And now, sleep. You are safe here. This is the Abbey of the Guard, the patron of the protectors. Tomorrow, there will be grief. But there will also be clarity."
He snuffed the candle out, and left.
Coban slept.
--------------
Coban woke as the pale light of pre dawn brightened the Eastern sky. He packed up his camp, and led Dobbin to the stream. He brushed his teeth with a twig, as Dobbin drank his fill - and urinated copiously, Coban stripped off his clothes and dived in. The water was cold and bracing. He swam for a while, and emerged, wet and dripping. He took a small slab of pumice from the saddlebag, and dived back , in this time scrubbing himself thoroughly all over. When he was satisfied, he reemerged, and wiped himself dry with his shirt. It would dry soon, once the sun came up.
An hour later, he was at a small orchard, sitting with a mug of sweet fresh perry. The orchardman gave him a hunk of bread and some delicious sheep cheese for a couple of coppers, and Coban consumed these with relish.
When he left the orchard, he realized that he was headed for the abbey.
It was noon when her arrived. The place seemed much smaller now. The doors were open, and he could see the altar, in the light of the ever-burning lantern, a symbol of the Guard's eternal watchfulness. There was a priestess standing at the alter, but Coban did not recognize her. She was dressed in the traditional chainmail, but very young.
She saw him enter and came up to him.
"And how may the Watchers of the Guard serve you today?"
She is still young, Coban thought, and painfully conscious of it. She's trying to deepen her voice, and it makes her sound like a child playing a grown up.
But he bowed respectfully, and said "Madam Guardian, I was wondering if I could see Sentinel Wignall. Or Guardian Perrault."
"Oh, I'm not a Guardian. I'm just an acolyte." the girl said, and flushed. "Not a guardian yet."
She paused.
"Sentinel Wignall is upstairs. He has been ill. Guardian Perrault...he died three years ago."
So Perrault was dead. It had been Perrault who had opened the abbey doors to them, that day. Perrault, who taught him the basics of the sword and the quarterstaff in the days that followed. Perrault, whose stern looks belied a wicked sense of humor and a delight in bawdy poetry.
He sighed. So many deaths.
And she said Wignall was ill.
"I would like to pay my respects to Sentinel Wignall. It has been a long time since I was here."
"I'm not sure. I should see if he can receive visitors." she turned towards the stairs, and then returned to him.
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"My name is Coban. Tell him its the boy who came to the abbey for sanctuary six years ago, if he has forgotten. "
"Oh," she paused. Then "Oh," again. She looked at him wide eyed, then ran towards the stairs, then collected herself, and went up with conscious dignity.
Ilanna and he had been at the abbey for a month, and Perrault had been their tutor in arms. He couldn't imagine Perrault dying in bed. Somehow, he felt sadder than he thought possible.
And Wignall.
A thought struck him. He smiled, and went to Dobbin. He retrieved a long package from the donkey's saddlebags, and waited for the acolyte.
She came running down a few minutes later.
"Please come up. Sentinel Wignall is anxious to met you."
-------
Wignall's room was small, not much larger than the cubicle he had spent his first night in. There was a narrow cupboard in a corner, a table with a stack of notebooks, filled with the old mans neat, cramped writing, a few maps, and a paperweight in the form of the Guard's sword. In one corner was a mannequin with an old, but lovingly polished suit of armor. On the wall was a scabbard, holding Wignall's sword, its long leather grip, cracked with age and wear, was oiled and polished.
Wignall looked cracked and weathered with age. The man seemed shrunken, and his eyes lit up when he saw Coban. "Hah," he said. "Our lost lamb returns. And not a lamb any longer, I see."
"Salutations, Sir Sentinel. Not a lamb, maybe. But still not sure if I am not lost," said Coban.
"Ridiculous boy!" said Wignall, motioning him to sit.
The old man really looked ill, thought Coban. There was a grey pallor to his face, and his eyes were bloodshot. He had lost weight. Not emaciated, but definitely thinner.
Wignall smiled. "Yes. The physician calls it cachexia. They do not hold much hope for me. My vigil may be ending soon. Which is all the more reason to rejoice at the visit of an old friend. How is your sister? Come now. It is time for me to hear your story again."
Coban smiled back at the old man. "First, I have something for you. Call it a small token of thanks from two scared children. Or a gift. Or an offering for the temple." He unwrapped the package, and drew the sword out. "This is the Holy Avenger Margo Aurorae. I took this from the hoard of the red wyrm Pyragniscar. I can think of no better home for it."
The old man sat up and took the sword. He rose from his bed, and held it before him, falling naturally into the Order Arms position. For a moment, the sickness seemed to fall away, and the sword seemed an extension of the man. Coban had a sudden vision of Wignall in his prime, a warrior and leader of men, an avatar of the Great Guard himself.
Then the vision faded, and Wignall was back on the bed, the sword in his lap.
"This is a princely gift. But it is not for me. Swords like these are meant for battle. It will be placed on the altar, and one day, another Watcher will use it in battle. It maybe young Yritta, whom you met. "
Coban nodded.
"We used to have six or seven acolytes here at any time. Now she is the only one. But she has a good heart, and she has courage. For the Great Guard, that is enough."
"She told you about Perrault, didn't she?"
Coban nodded again.
"Did she tell you how he died?"
Coban shook his head.
"Perrault was returning from a pilgrimage to Athitran, to the great temple there. On his way back, he found himself in a small village called Pineknot. There is a small temple to the Guard there. Now, the forest trolls of the Atvar were on a rampage. Pineknot was in their path."
He nodded his attention.
"Now fear makes people do stupid things. Two of the families decided they could travel faster without their children. So they came to the temple, left their children there, and told the priestess, an old Guardian named Vetrina Ailinger, that she was responsible for guarding them from the trolls."
"The youngest of the children was four. The oldest was twelve. Seven children in all. Two adults. Perrault and Ailinger."
Wignall's hands tightened around the sword, his knuckles white.
"They could not abandon the children. They could not flee with them either, as they would have been slowed down. So they decided to fight. Against a troll warband, fifty seven strong, led by their bloodthirsty matriarch, Griann Grimjaw."
Coban felt a surge of feeling, part fury, part disgust, and part deep sadness. He knew how this would have ended.
"Three days later, a contingent of Imperial Guards reached the village. The children were alive, being looked after by the eldest two, the twelve year old girl and a eleven year old boy. In a field by the village lay fifty seven dead trolls. And two watchers of the Guard, their armours rent, their swords shattered, dead of their wounds. But only after they killed every one of their enemies."
"The children told the guards what had happened. How the younger ones carried rocks for the older ones' slingshots. About making improvised explosives with oil, rags, and rekon nut shells. How Perrault and Ailinger had given the oldest knives, and how they had discussed using it on themselves and the other children if the worst came to pass."
The old man paused. "Did you know Perrault was one of my first acolytes?" he asked.
Coban shook his head.
Wignall sighed. "It is a sad funny ending. An old man trying to bask in the reflected glory of the young. But I am proud of him. And proud that I was a part of making him who he was, you know?"
Coban knew. He nodded again.
"None of the children went back to their parents, when they returned, all love and concern. The boy, the eleven year old, said that the temple was their home now. They sent Sentinel Arvorus to Pineknot from Athitran's grand temple. Good man, Arvorus. The children are in good hands. And the temple is in good hands, if the children are firm that it is their home now. And the high priests and Paladins had to honor Vetrina and Perrault, and they did it with great delight. After all, nothing makes the reputation of a temple than a story like this."
Coban had met enough high priests. He smiled.
"But enough. Tell me about yourself? How is Ilanna? Tell me about the dragon," Wignall paused. "You can come in, Yritta. This is no secret conversation."
The girl came in, looking embarrassed. Coban smiled at her. She smiled back, shyly. All attempts at appearing older were gone.
----------
**The Dragon Hunt**
It was, of all things, about a book. Coban and Ilanna were working with Svaran's White Jasmine mercenary group. The client was the mage Dranthalian, who, as it turned out, had been hired by the library of Kostar to retrieve a grimoire called "Peri physeōs hylēs kai philosophias metabolōn". The mage's problem was that the only rumoured copy was in the hoard of an ancient red wyrm called Pyragniscar, who laired far in the Grey Hills, far beyond the salt flats of Tragilla. The dragon had driven most settlers away, there were few villages and no towns for over a hundred miles. Getting there would be a problem. Getting there with all the weapons and supplies needed for the expedition even harder. And once they got there, it was more likely the dragon found them before they found it.
But, as Svaran said, the mage was not interested in the gold, and neither was the library. The gold and gems in the hoard were theirs for the taking, with the usual split of forty percent for the order, the remainder to be split between the expedition staff - or their next of kin, as the case was.
"I've never even seen a dragon before," said Coban. "I don't know if I'm ready."
They were sitting with Svaran in his office. The boss was in an expansive mood, because of two high risk missions the order had taken up had been executed cleanly, and by some miracle, without fatalities.
"You aren't, neither of you" Svaran said.
"But then, no one is. If I didn't know Dranthalian, I wouldn't even consider this. But here's the thing. Your job is to keep him alive. You do that, he will take the dragon down. But it won't be as simple as that. You've been in enough fights by now. Every thing changes once battle begins."
Svaran nodded. Ilanna looked thoughtful.
"And you, magelet, you would do well to listen to Dranthalian. He may sound like a pompous shit, but he isn't bad at heart. And he will tell you what you need to know, from the spells and scrolls you need to the potions and concoctions you need to use, down to the clothes you wear."
"Yes, boss!" Ilanna said. "I'll be the dutiful pupil, don't worry."
Svaran gave her an old fashioned look. Everyone knew he adored her. Coban sighed internally, feeling a pang of envy, before he realized that, in a way, he was as much a favourite of the boss as she was.
"Dranthalian will be the client, but from our side Wiknorgo will lead the expedition. And if he decides the mission is off, it's off."
Wiknorgo was one of the boss's senior commanders. Coban knew little of him, except that he had a reputation for competence, and occasionally, cold brutality.
In all, it was a party of fourteen that set off from the order's barracks. The mule train would take around six weeks to get to the foothills, if all went well. After that, it was anyone's guess.
The first week was uneventful. Wiknorgo kept to himself in his cart, emerging only for sparring practice and meals. He ignored the others for the most part, though he would talk to Ilanna every now and then.
For her part, Ilanna spent most of her time with Dranthalian. The mage was glad of her company, and Ilanna, true to her word, played the dutiful pupil beautifully. Coban would see the two of them, heads together, poring over some book or the other from the collection the older mage deemed necessary for an expedition of this sort.
Wiknorgo's sparring partner was a dwarf, a taciturn Seawilder called Drasmus Saltmaker. Wiknorgo would go at Drasmus with his huge two-handed scimitar, and Drasmus would counter him with a different weapon each day. The two could not be more unlike. Wiknorgo used his feet, dancing in and out, handling the heavy sword as though it was a rapier. Drasmus moved little, just enough to avoid or block. Coban and the others would watch these sparring sessions, which would usually begin late in the afternoon and end at sunset.
"I wouldn't want to go up against either, but I'd rather face Wiknorgo than the dwarf, dontcheknew?"
The speaker was Aris Panier, an Itracian expatriate who had joined the company a few weeks before Coban and Ilanna had. He was a slender, and managed to look well groomed whatever the circumstance. Coban had not worked with him before and knew little about him. He was supposed to be a good scout, though.
Coban wasn't sure. Even in practice, there was a feeling of ferocity about Wiknorgo that would be hard to handle.
"You see well," said Anthor.
Coban looked at him, startled. The Eklavian berserker was a man of few words. But Eklavians were supposed to know fighting. They were a kin species, who looked like tall lean humans, with pale blue or violet skin. An Eklavian was worth 10 good fighters, the saying went. Like trolls, their women were physically as strong as the men. Unlike trolls, they looked better. It was said that Eklavian women won as many fights because of their looks as they did with skill.
"Wiknorgo's style his friend, and his foe. Drasmus, his style is a tool, one of many. I would respect the latter more," said Anthor.
"You don't train much yourself, do you?" Coban asked.
"I train. For me, it is the mind that needs training more than the body."
Coban supposed that Anthor had mental exercises, like the kind Banlon had taught them to help remember their lessons. Maybe it was a racial thing.
He resumed watching Wiknorgo and Drasmus, trying to see what the others saw.
The weeks went by. Routines established themselves. Food and water. Supplies in villages and towns. Hunts for game and fish. The daily search for water and firewood.
Coban got to know the others. There were the two clerics, one tall and lugubrious, the other short, plump and jolly. Nicknamed "thick and thin", they were always at each other's throats. It didn't help that one served the Lady of Love, and the other the Thinker. But despite this, there was a deep friendship between the two. And they pulled their weight, whether it was with hunting, hauling water, or standing watch. They were also very good healers, dealing with whatever little ailments that arose without bickering with each other.
There was Jiranta, a weatherbeaten woman with a longbow, who rarely spoke. She was the best hunter in the group, and long practice with the bow had left her one arm significantly bigger than the other.
By the end of the fifth week, they had moved past the last village, huddling on the edge of the salt flats. Water became scarcer, and Jiranta and Aris took longer to return from their hunting trips. And in the distance, they could see the broken hills where the dragon was supposed to lair.
One morning, Wiknorgo called a meeting. "Right, now things get serious. We need to be on the alert, all the time. At every point of time, I need four lookouts. All directions. And that includes you too, wizard. We cannot be caught napping. Weapons within reach, everyone. Drasmus, if you have a shield that we can use as a gong, set it up. "
Drasmus nodded.
"I cannot be part of this, Wiknorgo," said Dranthalian. "First of all, I am your employer. I do not take orders from you, however well intentioned. But more importantly, I need to prepare. Potions that need constant observation. Scrolls and spells that may make the difference between life and death. Your orders are sensible, and essential. But I have my job, just as you do. And I will need Ilanna's aid here. Kindly remove the two of us from your roster."
Without waiting for an answer, the wizard turned to his cabin, saying "Come, Ilanna, we have work to do."
Coban saw Wiknorgo's face contort in rage but he quickly suppressed it. "Never mess with wizards, eh," he said, with a strained laugh. "I'll have a new roster up, but that's more work for the rest of you mere mortals."
The group broke up, but Coban saw Wiknorgo staring after Dranthalian and Ilanna with an expression that filled him with unease.
----------
**Pyragniscar**
The dragon's lair was in a shallow bowl shaped valley in the middle of a range of short stubby hills. They could see the beast itself, lying in the centre of the bowl.
Until then, Coban had not considered really thought about the dragon. He knew it would be big, but seeing it now made him really grasp the magnitude of their undertaking. Next to him, he heard Aris draw a deep breath.
They had left the carts under an overhang, and were making their way, as silently as they could, to where the wyrm lay.
Wiknorgo and Dranthalian had discussed the plan, such as it was. "We spread out," Wiknorgo said."Drasmus and I face it head on. I'll be a little to the left, Drasmus to the right. Jiranta and Bell, hang back. Jiranta to the left, clockwise of me. Bell to the right, the same. Wizard, straight ahead, as far back as you need to be. Girl, you'll go right. As far as you can, but close enough to the wizard that you can hear each other, and are in spell range."
He looked at the priests. "You two, don't come anywhere near us until the creature is fully occupied. We cannot afford to lose you. After that, you will have to use your judgment. Keep the mages alive. Keep us all alive, if you can."
Thick and Thin nodded. "We will pray and cast our spells on you before you get into position. But remember, these spells only last a limited amount of time. The longer you take to begin the fight, the less effective our spells will be."
"I know. We all know," said Wiknorgo.
Dranthalian gave each one of them a vial. "Drink this after getting into position. Or if the dragon moves. It will protect you from dragonfire, but not for long".
"Coban and Anthor, the wings." Wiknorgo continued. He looked at Aris. "Get behind it. See what you can do."
Aris nodded. He had changed from his usual scarlet and crimson cavalry jacket into a drab brown and gray jacket and breeches. He now took a small vial from his bandolier and aointed his shortswords with the contents. He saw Coban watching him. "The venom of a silverscale ridger, one of the deadliest snakes in the Empire. Treated with a few other little nasty surprises. A slash can kill a man in less than a minute. The boffins I've talked to say that it all depends on the size of the creature you were trying to put down. Don't think they ever thought of something bigger than most mansions." He grinned.
"Still, may give it a pain in the backside, what?"
Coban nodded soberly.
Across them, Anthor was sitting on a small rock, cross-legged. His eyes were closed, and he looked almost...serene.
"Clearing his mind. Its an Eklav thing," whispered Aris.
Dranthalian was speaking again. "Remember. The dragon's most powerful weapon is not fire, but *fear*. If you can overcome that, that's part of the battle won. Ilanna, pass around the *kalavita*, please. Everyone, just one sip. That will give you some protection, take you out of yourself, so that you can see things more...objectively. One sip, not more."
The bottle went around. Coban grimaced, and took a small sip., before passing it on to Aris. "Anthor, what about you?" he asked.
Anthor opened his eyes. "No, thank you." He smiled. "Fear is an old friend of mine."
He's the only one who doesn't seem worried, thought Coban.
"Well, everyone set? Let's go"
Wiknorgo set off. The others, filed in behind him.
Coban took a deep breath, and followed.
-----------
Haze shimmered from the floor of the valley. It was getting oppressively hot, a dry heat that almost seemed a physical thing. The dragon seemed to grow in size with each step they took. They could not move as silently as they would have wished, but somehow, they managed to get into position.
Then Coban saw that the dragon's eyes were open.
Everyone else must have noticed it at the same time. There was a moment when everything felt suspended in time.
Then the dragon spoke.
"Welcome."
Coban did not know what he had been expecting. Enraged, earth shattering roars, a bass rumble that threatened the eardrums, maybe. But this was a melodious deep tenor voice, a *cultivated* voice.
"It has been a long time since I have had visitors. And I see the old rules or etiquette are still being observed. Ah. The classic 10 person formation."
No one said anything.
Coban wondered if he should drink the potion that Dranthalian had handed out now, but decided to hold on.
"Are you here for plunder? Or did I kill a favourite cow on your farmstead? Or ravage a great aunt when I took human form? Or are you here for glory?"
There was silence, then, Dranthalian spoke up.
"We came here for a book."
The dragon blinked. Then it laughed.
It was a genuine laugh, deep full throated, and it shook the walls of the valley.
"And what book do you seek, that you have travelled so far? I can smell the miles on your mule carts, what is it seven weeks of travel? Is it the *Peri tēs physeōs tōn ontōn kai tēs metamorphōseōs autōn*? Or the *Biblion tēs zōēs kai tou thanatou* ?"
"The *Peri physeōs hylēs kai philosophias metabolōn*. We, uh, I, was told by the Librarians of Kostar that you had the sole known copy."
The dragon laughed again. Coban heard a small rockslide begin behind him.
"That piece of charlatanry? If that is all, then take it. With my blessing. And leave in peace."
"Uh. Thank you," said Dranthalian.
"You will find the book in the pile behind me, it is the only one with an indigo calfskin binding. In case you are unfamiliar with the ancient Tassilonian."
Coban could hear amusement, even glee, in the dragon's voice. This was all wrong.
Things seemed to be happening slowly. Like in a dream.
Dranthalian started to move towards the hoard, then stopped. He signalled Aris, who nodded and made for the pile of books that lay at the edge of the basin.
Anthor raised his hand to his mouth.
Drasmus lowered his shield, slightly.
The thin priest slowly come closer to Jiranta.
And faster than he could have believed possible, he saw the dragon's tail, uncoil and lash out at Aris, hitting him in the ribs and sending him flying.
"DID YOU THINK YOU COULD JUST WALK IN AND STEAL FROM THE HOARD OF PYRAGNISCAR??"
Again, faster than he could have imagined, the dragon was on its feet. It turned to Wiknorgo, and *roared*.
The sound was nothing like he had heard before.
Coban wondered he would ever be able to hear anything again.
And he panicked.
This is where I die, he thought.
The dragon's scales changed colour, a coating of ice on the scales.
Wiknorgo was on the ground, his head in his hands, weeping and shaking.
Bell, standing emptyhanded, was bending to pick up crossbow at his feet.
The dragon turned, as if it had all the time in the world, to Drasmus, who had his shield up again. It opened its mouth.
There was a torrent of flame.
Drasmus disappeared in the fire, the beginnings of scream turning into a gurgle.
There was nothing left of Drasmus but a small pile of ashes and grotesquely misshapen metal.
And Bell was burning now, caught in the edge of the blast, like some strange torch that jerked like a marionette.
Coban saw Anthor, calmly, with unhurried speed, making for the dragon's flank.
Anthor hadn't panicked, he realized. Anthor has seen what was coming, even before the dragon had moved. Of all of them, only Anthor had been prepared.
Without looking, he saw that Ilanna was muttering something, her hands making passes in the air.
Dranthalian was standing with his hand spread, palms out, bathed in perspiration, his eyes blank, a frown of intense concentration on his face.
Across him, he saw Anthor launch himself into the air, like a professional acrobat, and grab hold of the dragon's wing.
"No, Not today." Coban thought. "You got me there, but by the Guard, I am going to make you work for it."
He downed the fire potion. The immediate numbness calmed him, and he watched the dew condense on his greaves with detachment.
"My turn," he thought.
His jump for the dragon's wing was not as graceful as Anthors, but it was effective.
He landed with a grunt, scrabbling for purchase.
From far away, he heard the wizard scream "It's protected from magic and cold. We need to breach the magic and wear down its spell defenses."
"Ho. Ho. Ho. Everything by the book, eh mage? But this is a game I've played before. And you will have get your turn, never fear."
From where he hung, Coban wasn't sure if he was hearing the dragon, or just feeling its response in his head. But he recognized its glee.
No matter. He angled his sword and tried to saw through the wing.
The sword turned on the bone.
He looked across at Anthor, who was hanging on the wing bone, and sawing through the fabric of the wing underneath.
The dragon unfurled its wings. Coban hung on for dear life.
And now the dragon screamed.
Coban saw why. Aris was up, between the dragon's hind legs, his hands blurred as he struck repeatedly with his poisoned swords at the dragon's vulnerable cloaca.
He turned his head and saw Jiranta, her longbow at full draw, release arrow after arrow at the dragon's face.
"That must be at least a 120 pound draw." the inconsequential thought flitted across his mind as he saw one of her arrows hit its mark, and bury itself in the dragon's left nostril.
Pyragniscar screamed again, and this time, pain had joined rage.
"Maybe it'll do something to the sense of smell. Will a bleeding nose stop you from smelling things? Who will the dragon choose? The nose or the ass?"
It was like there was another voice in his head, detached from everything, keeping us a continuous stream of thought, while his body stayed focused on the job at hand, sawing through the leathery surface of the wing.
The dragon chose Jiranta.
It roared again, and let out a long sustained blast of flame.
And missed completely.
The ungainly woman had moved with surprising grace, and had thrown herself back in the opposite direction at the last moment, and the fire expended itself in front of her.
The dragon roared again, and this time, it jumped and turned at the same time, looking for Aris.
But Aris had been prepared too. He dived forward, landing neatly below the dragons chest, avoiding the dragon's dipping head, safe from its breath. And he was back at the dragon's rear.
"Well, he always prided himself on being a pain in the ass. Who knew he meant it literally." Coban's inner voice continued.
Another arrow, this time into Pyragniscar's ear.
"That was either lucky, or incredible skill. Jiranta's earning every penny of her pay," he thought.
And as he tore a sheet of leathery fabric off the wing, he saw that the white coating over the dragon's scale had almost completely disappeared.
Across him, Anthor was making his way to the back of the dragon's head.
At that moment Coban's arms gave, and he fell heavily to the ground.
He saw Bell slowly rise, from between the two priests. They must have healed him, but even from this distance he could see that the archer's face was a ruin.
The dragon ignored all of them. It lunged forward, its neck extended, and there was an ugly *CHOMP*.
The mangled lower half of Jiranta dropped to the floor.
"Not bad. I thought her meat would be stringier. I prefer my meat cooked, though," the dragon said.
Bell, poor Bell managed to fire his crossbow once, before the dragon, now right on top of him, swatted him with a lazy claw, sending him tumbling lifeless on the stones.
And now the dragon had the thick priest on the ground, pinned by the same giant claw.
The priest no was longer smiling, but there was a strange dignity about his face as the dragon ripped his bowels out. His face was at peace.
The dragon turned to the wizard.
The man has steel, I'll give him that, thought Coban, as struggled to rise. The wizard was standing not two feet away from the dragons mouth. "Must be like looking into a furnace. Would it bite? Or breathe?" thought Coban.
As the dragon reared its head back, the wizard made a gesture with his hands.
The dragon *rippled*.
"Now, Ilanna!" The wizard's voice was a whipcrack.
In front of Ilanna, the air misted over, until it was freezing mist that washed over the dragon. Aris was back at the dragon's cloaca, and had managed to rip a shallow gash through the surrounding areas, which now looked an ugly blue black.
*Where was Wiknorgo?*
Coban looked for him - but the big man had taken to his heels, watching the destruction from the edge of the valley.
A bitter "Fuck" exploded from Coban. He turned to the dragon, trying to the judge the best distance to get to its shoulder, when he found himself scuttling back to avoid the wing.
The dragon had turned its attention to Anthor, who was now almost on top of its head. It used its wing claws to grab the Eklavian and throw him to the ground. He fell, but manged to turn that in a tumbling roll, and was on his feet again, circling back to the dragon's flank. Dranthalian had managed another spell, or maybe Ilanna and Dranthalian had done the spell together, and the sky darkened.
Thunder crashed.
"Are they bringing down the lightning on that thing?" he thought.
The dragon, however, had its attention elsewhere. It's tail whipped inwards, and emerged, holding Aris in its coils, and smashed him down on where its hoard began. Aris lay still.
And then Coban saw what the wizard had been doing. From the sky came a series of white bolts, like a miniature snowstorm, but moving with tremendous speed and inexorable purpose, homing in on the dragon.
Pyragniscar's eyes widened before the storm hit.
The beast collapsed.
Thunder roared. Rain began to fall.
The dragon roared again, as it struggled to rise.
Another storm of missiles hit.
It fell again.
It was bloodied now, bleeding from a thousand gaps between its scales, where magic had penetrated far better than steel.
Dranthalian made another pass with his hands.
Nothing happened.
The dragon chuckled. "Out of spells, wizard? Do you want me to wait while you get to your cart for scrolls? I will amuse myself with your toothsome little mageling here."
"Keep the mage alive. No. Keep the mages alive." He needed to something. Ilanna. He looked for Anthor, and he was back on the beasts body, again making his way to the head.
Coban started running too. From the corner of his eye, he could see the thin priest making his way towards Aris. "Let him be alive, O Guard. keep him. We've lost too many already."
The dragon was still struggling to rise. Its blood steamed as it ran across its scales. .
The dragon was up now, and it swung its tail again, this time sending the priest sprawling. He clambered up, but his face was covered in blood.
Coban stood in front of Ilanna. All he could think of was "She will not die before me." He could hear her panting behind him, and said "Get away, leave. Hide."
The dragin was moving slowly now. It's face was bloody, but the eyes were clear and malevolent.
"Oh, what do we have here? Chivalry? Pointless. You should have followed your leader, boy!"
Coban's hand moved before he knew it. He drove his sword straight at the dragon's face, tearing through the bleeding nose, and cutting through the eyeball.
And then he was flying.
He landed next to the thin priest. I think I've broken all my ribs he thought/
But Anthor were on the dragon's shoulders now.
He raised his sword, and drove it deep into the dragon's eye.
With a roar unlike any before, the dragon raised its paw and tore at the Eklavian. It ripped his body in half, before collapsing, Anthor hanging from his sword from its eye like an old coat, slowly, on to the rocks of the valley.
Coban fainted.
--------
He opened his eyes. Ilanna was crouching next to him. Weeping.
"So I've made you cry again, eh?"
"You better not do it again. Or I'll kill you myself." she said.
Coban struggled to a sitting position. It looked like the priest was dead, but Coban noticed that he was breathing, weakly.
Dranthalian was kneeling in front of Anthor's body, still stuck to the dragon's eye.
And Wiknorgo, behind him, raised a club and hit the mage hard, on the back of his head.
Dranthalian collapsed.
Coban just had time to say "Illi" before Wiknorgo was on them. He dragged Ilanna up by her hair, looked at Coban, smiled, and spat in his face. His boot came up and Coban felt the bones of his nose crunch under it.
"Now, this is what's going to happen. We are going to go back, you and me, after the carters load up the gold and treasure, and yes, the books," he heard Wiknorgo say.
"We'll have fun together, girl. Or, I'll have fun. But it'll just be you and me, because we dont want any false stories of what happened here going around do we? Especially since the dragon killed everyone else."
Ge heard muffled cursing, and the snap of breaking bone. And a scream. "There, that should keep you from trying to scratch my eyes out. Now, lets make sure that they're all really dead, starting with the Itracian idiot"
Coban's mind was churning. Rage, impotence, pain tore at him.
Then he felt the touch of a hand. It was the thin priest, still too weak to stand, but something *flowed* from him into Coban. The agony was exquisite, but Coban knew what was happening. He was being healed.
He saw Ilanna looking at him, her eyes wide. She raised a finger to her lips, her broken hand hanging limply by her side. He saw her lips move, but could not make out the words.
And she winked at him.
He felt a strangeness, a strangeness he had felt before. His body was turning transparent in front of his eyes.
Noiselessly, he got up. By the time, he lifted his sword, he was completely invisible.
He didn't know how he did it. but he raced up to Wiknorgo who was already raising his club to deal the coup de grace to Aris.
He had not made a sound.
He could not see the sword, so he did not know what would happen, but he swung it with all his might at Wiknorgo's right shoulder.
Maybe it was anger, maybe it was desperation, that gave the sword its edge. Maybe it was the all the power that Coban could muster. The sword cut cleanly through Wiknorgo's upper arm.
The big man screamed, as the blood gouted from his shoulder. He watched his hand flop on the ground, club still in hand, like some strange fish.
Coban pushed him away from Aris, and went to work.
The invisibility was already wearing off, but that was good, he thought.
Wiknorgo was on his knees, holding his ruined shoulder with his other hand. Slowly, methodically, Coban unbuckled his greaves. Then he cut through WIknorgo''s breastplate straps.
The big man was shrieking in pain. He would pass out soon.
Coban did not want that.
He had things to say to him.
And do.
-----------
**Confession**
When Coban finished, the little cell was full. There were two other priests, Watcher Britam, who Coban remembered from his days in the Abbey. The young acolyte was there, hanging on to every word. A small crowd had collected outside. farm workers, goodwives, the orchard keeper he had met that morning.
"I didn't realize I had become a gleeman," he said.
"Better than any gleeman's tale, that was!"
It was the orchard keeper.
Wignall raised his hand.
"Well, everyone, you've all heard a good tale of heroes and dragons. Now back to work, your fields or homes. Master Coban and I have things to talk about still. Yritta , a pitcher of good hot mead for our guest. And for me. So make it well. And shut the door behind you."
The crowd dispersed.
"What happened next?"
"Nothing much, really. Aris was alive. But several broken ribs. Dranthalian was lucky too. Just a big bump on his head. The thin priest - Nalar - was exhausted. He had burnt himself out, he couldn't do much in the way of healing."
"We buried our dead in the valley. Moving the gold to the carts took us three days. I had to forage for food and water. That was hard."
"And the journey back?"
"It rained a lot."
"What happened to the gold?"
"Oh, we stuck to the terms of the deal. Jiranta had a daughter, so the boss, made sure that she got the money. Or that she would get the money when she came of age. The boss was very good at that kind of thing. There's a little orphanage in the Order compound, and every one of those kids is cared for - probably better off than if some of their parents had been alive."
"That is good to hear. Is Svaran a worshipper of the Guard? Or any of the Gods?"
"The boss? Not really. He has a saying. 'The Gods mind their business, I mind mine'," Coban grinned.
Wignoll looked thoughtful.
"Wiknorgo had a woman. Not a wife, but she stayed with him when he was at the camp. A quiet little thing. We gave her his share. Dranthalian insisted, and Nalar and I agreed. Aris and Ilanna didn't want to, but we managed to override them."
"That is good."
"The wizard refused the gold. He said he had the books. And there were certain artifacts - a couple of rings, an old crown - plain silver, no gems or ornaments, and an ancient leather armband were enough treasure for him."
"A man of intellect and wisdom. That is a rare combination."
"I found him distant, a hard man to get to know, but Illi adored him."
There was a companionable silence for a while.
Yritta came in with two mugs of mead.
After she left, Coban said "I didn't kill Wiknorgo, you know."
The old priest waited.
"I tortured him. I... disembowelled him, but left him alive. He was still alive when we left. But barely"
The priest said nothing for a while.
"As doctrine, what you did was right and proper. Cowardice is pardonable. But in the Guard's eyes, betrayal, especially betrayal of someone you had undertaken to protect, is the worst sin, demanding proportionate retribution."
He paused.
"But that is no comfort, is it?"
Coban smiled and shook his head.
"I believe that betrayal makes us who we are. Not others' betrayal of us. But our own betrayals. They shape us," said Wignall.
The old priest sagged back.
"I am old and tired. I need my rest, boy. You are welcome to stay and as long as you wish. Send Yritta to me. I will make her the guardian of the sword."
He smiled at Coban.
"It will make her very happy, I think."
Coban felt a surge of affection for the old man. He gripped his shoulder once, hard, and left.